


The Flower and the Buzzle.

by HarleyMischief



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Codependency, Consensual, Diary/Journal, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Gunplay, Homelessness, Kink, M/M, Memories, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Pre and Post Reichenbach, Prostitution, Sex Toys, Teenlock, They love each other so much, Underage Sex, Unhealthy Relationships, it hurts, it's not the creepy kind of underage, remember the legal age of consent in the uk is 16, they're both almost fifteen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-01-25 12:46:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1649114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarleyMischief/pseuds/HarleyMischief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the days that have passed since the news reached me of the death of Sherlock Holmes - things have been difficult. It seems as if I have spent the last 72 hours systematically trying to relive every moment we passed in each others company. In a way I suppose I am hoping that writing it down will be cathartic, though I was resigned long ago to the fact that his memory would never be completely lost to me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thief

In the days that have passed since the news reached me of the death of Sherlock Holmes - things have been difficult. It seems as if I have spent the last 72 hours systematically trying to relive every moment we passed in each others company. In a way I suppose I am hoping that writing it down will be cathartic, though I was resigned long ago to the fact that his memory would never be completely lost to me.

I suppose the very act of starting a story at the beginning is unoriginal but I'd much rather start here, unfortunately I myself am not much prepared for the unhappy ending which awaits us.

I doubt it comes as any kind of surprise to you that both Sherlock and I first made our acquaintance at school, both term time boarders, both from wealthy enough families that we avoided the purgatory of having to share a room with a dorm mate.  
He was - even then - more than a little odd. Two years of lower forms without so much as exchanging a single word to each other. We were fifteen by the time we finally shared a class in which we were situated beside one another in the higher set for Biological Chemistry.

If it were ever possible to take ownership of a subject, then Sherlock possessed chemistry, formulae and reactions were imprinted upon him like birthmarks and I must admit to having congratulated myself on my luck for having scored the seat beside him. All the good it did me, or at least, not at the beginning.

In the very same way that Sherlock Holmes' blood sang of catalysts and equations, my particular love and talent was focused wholly on the consistent certainty of numbers. Mathematics. 

If I had been a romantic I probably would have known then that we would compliment one another so perfectly.  
As it was, we sat together for almost a full term without speaking a single word to each other that wasn't relevant to the class subject matter and even then any verbal exchange was brief and to the point. To me, he was an oddity and to him, I was just another face.

In the end it all came down to the very plain fact that I was failing chemistry and that, at the time, my morals were rather loose.

The day I stole Sherlock Holmes' chemistry notes from his bag would change us both irrevocably for the rest of our lives and yet the action itself seems so pathetic.

Of course he knew it was me, as it turned out he'd been mentally placing bets with himself as to when I would finally cave and ask for help- apparently my penchant for theft was a 'pleasant surprise'. Or so he informed me that evening when he appeared outside my room, arms crossed over his chest, dark curls sticking out every which way. 

Neither of us had really grown into ourselves yet. I was thin, awkward and my thick black hair was untameable. Sherlock - well, he lacked much of the grace he adopted so well in the years that followed. 

He stepped right past me and dropped down onto my desk chair without a single word. I simply shut the door with a small click and lent back against it, watching him carefully. The conversation that followed went something like this:

'My chemistry book'

I nod - there isn't really much I can offer at that.

'You have it.'

Another nod - no point denying it.

'How did I not see?'

I finally respond, perplexed by the question, a little entranced by the way his lips moved when he spoke. He notices, of course.

'You weren't looking?'

'Im always looking. I see everything.'

'Well. I guess you missed something.'

'Obviously.'

There's something of a drawn out pause then, he spins back and forth on the chair, picking up bits and pieces from the desk top. Papers, the rubiks cube next to my Oxford English. His slender fingers drift over my folio copy of Frankenstein - odd, how that particular fact sticks in my memory. 

I just watch him until he speaks again, his eyes fixed on something I can't see up on one of my shelves. 

'I could help you- obviously you're worried about your parents reaction if you should fail a core subject, and with your father being a chemist himself...'

I don't ask him how he knows, it doesn't seem important and besides - I'd heard enough rumours.

'Why would you help me? You don't even know me. We've been sitting together for an entire term and I doubt you even know my name.'

'Victor Trevor.'

I wouldn't realise until much later in our acquaintance just how much hearing him say my name for the first time had affected me. It was one of the few things I expect he never deduced and that I never had the opportunity to express. 

I blink slowly at him and I have no doubt that he was considering exactly how much of an idiot I was. This was, after all, Sherlock Holmes. Stand offish, unapproachable, intimidatingly brilliant and painfully dismissive. This was Sherlock Holmes offering to help me pass chemistry. I wonder now If it wasn't more than that. If it was in fact, his was of reaching out to someone. Of finally risking a part of himself in the pursuit of friendship.

I say yes, not quite as eloquently as I would have liked but the whole experience had left me a little confused. I vaguely remember having the urge to offer him tea, which would have been ridiculous given the complete lack of tea making essentials. Instead, I go to the end of my unmade bed and fish his note book out of my bag, taking a few steps and placing it on my desk for him to take.

'It wouldn't have done you much good anyway.'

I incline my head, not even needing to ask why - he's already started telling me.  
He flips the first page.

'The majority of this would be illegible to someone so...'

He pauses and I'm certain that he's consciously trying to search for a less offensive word.

'It's fine.' I tell him. 'I know I'm shit.'

He smiles. Oh he smiles. It's like a secret, one he always kept quite well hidden and I answer it with a small one of my own.

'Do you think you could bring yourself to dumb it down for a novice like me?'

There's a pause and I get the feeling that he's struggling with something. He opens his mouth and closes it again, looking determined down at the square graph paper strewn across my desk. When he next speaks it's a mumble and I miss every word but one - 'ridiculous'.

I scratch a hand through my hair. I don't need to ask him to say it again because he already knows I haven't got a clue. He seems to take a moment to steel himself before he tries again, each word enunciated perfectly, clear and utterly coherent, yet no less surprising.

'I find myself, despite my far superior intellect, having to...'

He pauses.

'I need help with algebra.'

I very nearly laugh but thankfully I think better of it. My response is quiet, friendly.

'I can do that.'

'Its not that I can't do it, I just haven't the time patience to waste my...'

I shake my head and interrupt.

'I can help you.'

He nods and clenches one pale fist before standing, shoving his chemistry book under his arm.

'Classes finish at four tomorrow, be in the library at five. I won't wait around for you.'

A few moments later I open my mouth to say goodbye but he's already pushed past me and shut the door behind him. I spend a good few minutes pondering the encounter and then an entire sleepless night considering what might happen during the next one.


	2. Blush

Fifteen was very easy as an age, of course at the time I couldn't think of anything worse. I was almost certain that being fifteen was tantamount to a hideous curse. Too young to drive, to drink...At least another year of school, two of college and three at university if I was ever to make anything of myself. Not that it worked out that way in the end.

I'm getting ahead of myself, I tend to do that, skip ahead, tell a story the way I want it to go rather than the way it really came to pass.

This is different though, when I look back on that year now I realise it was full of exploration, new experiences and a kind of youthful happiness that I would never feel again. It was a good year, that very first one. We were young and in the midst of falling in love. The truth is, both of us were a little terrified by the whole thing.

After that first proper meeting we saw each other increasingly often. There were stages - brief explanations and silent study, both bent over our own work. Then came the lengthier exchanges, the first sounds of shared laughter, acknowledgement in the hallway, the dining area. 

Four weeks after our first study session I found him waiting for me outside of my French grammar class. I never needed to ask him how he knew my entire time table.

Without really noticing we had fallen into an easy, comfortable friendship. He was drawn to me as I was to him, a planetary rotation of sorts. Needless to say, I passed chemistry with fly colours. There lies the next memory that really clutches to me. Six weeks after the note book theft, results day for the midterm exams. I was sick with nerves and he hadn't said much at all. I imagine he knew I wouldn't listen and therefore refrained from saying anything. More often than not the act of conversation was tedious for him and so I let him be.

He was handed his envelope first for no other reason that H comes before T in the alphabet, not that it mattered. In the end his troubles with mathematics lay more with his own laziness than any lack of understanding. As expected he tore open the envelope, gave the enclosed piece of paper one perfunctory glance before crumpling it, face blank and unaffected. It didn't help in the slightest that he looked far more anxious when I was handed mine. I suppose he may have been worried that the standard of his tutoring as below par but by this point I had come to hope that perhaps his visible concern was due to his growing affection for me. 

In the end he was the one to open it, pull out the single sheet of paper and nod slowly- which didn't do all that much to calm me down. I'm certain he didn't leave me waiting by design. It was then and always would be his nature. Sherlock was a selfish being, it wasn't conscious nor was it malicious, which is why I accepted it so easily. After all, not once did he mention a single one of my faults. 

In the end I just took the results from him, looked down at the ink and allowed myself a quiet moment of relief. A pass- and a good one. Enough to keep my parents happy at the very least. 

'I suppose we should celebrate...'

It strikes me as odd that the suggestion has come from him. Most of our class mates will be sneaking off site to drink low alcohol hooch and pretend they are drunk because teenagers in the mid ninties liked to do that sort of thing.

Sherlock and I were a little different in this case as in many others, which is why I had no idea what he could have planned. We spent a lot of our time together reading, a few times I had settled myself on his bed as he carried out any number of weird experiments at his desk. Occasionally we would hang half out of his window, passing a single cigarette between us. We didn't do it because we wanted to break the rules. He didn't particularly care about that either way. We did it because we wanted those moments which offered us freedom, independence- something that often evaded us due to the confines of boarding school. 

That day we went back to his room. I felt relieved, elated and then without warning everything was magnified by the briefest touch, the tips of his fingers grazing my knuckles as we walked. The motion repeated with every step or so, along with the natural rhythm of out bodies. I wanted to ask him if it was accidental, but somehow I think we both already knew the answer to that. 

The spell was somewhat broken when he stepped away to unlock his door, both of us stepping inside together and throwing it bags to the floor. Conversation was light and I struggle to remember it now- a discussion concerning the results of his latest experiment, or whatever new samples he had retrieved from the river bank. At the time I would have been fascinated, I always was when it came to him. 

Where usually I would sit myself cross legged on his bed and he in some impossible position upon his desk chair, in this instance he shuffled up the bed, back against the head board and with a single pat of his hand motioned for me to join him. I did, without question, positioning myself between his body and the wall. Our legs touching, socked feet meeting at the end of the bed. I admit to being a little confused as to whether this was the celebration, not that the close proximity would be more than enough. 

'I knew you would pass.'

I snort and look over at him, thinking back to the badly hidden display of anxiety that crossed his face before my results wet revealed. I don't argue, I look ahead and let my hand fell from my thigh to rest between us. It rests over his and even now I'm not sure if I'd meant to do it all along. Instead of pulling away I hesitate a moment before speaking.

'Is this..?'

'Yes. Fine. It's fine.'

He turns his hand slowly under mine, our fingers interlocking loosely - my heart stops, I'm certain it does. 

We don't speak for a long time, a silence lays lightly over the room. I note the strange acidic smell drifting over from an ominous looking container on his desk. I don't ask.

At some point his fingers start to move, a vague, playful experiment of sorts. I follow, my eyes fixed on the way we play carefully with one another, stroking each gap between his digits, the bumps of his knuckles.

There wasn't all that much sensual about it, but as a fifteen year old boy I can honestly say I had never experienced something so sexual. I ached for him - mentally, physically. This wasn't some faceless fantasy. Compared to the sexual experiences we would share in the years to come the whole incident seems rather insignificant. Yet for me, in that moment and even as I think back on it now, it was truly delicious.

He ran the very tip of his index finger over the sensitive skin of my palm, tracing the etched lines right down to the blue veins at my wrist - veins which would come to mean much more to us nothin. Few years but in that moment meant nothing but the hammer beat of my racing heart, 

I heard his breath catch so I raised my head just enough to catch him watching the point at which his fingers touched to my skin. The milky complexion of his cheeks dusted pink with heat and i imagine mine were much the same. His eyes were dark, curious as always but burning with a new kind of fire. 

I doubt either of us really knew what any of it meant. Though I was rather well acquainted with my right hand by that point, I would later discover that physical pleasure was as good as alien to him. It just turned into another thing to love...that look of pure shock and confusion as the intensity of his...

But I'm jumping ahead if myself again.

I think that I would have been quite content if all I ever got to do with Sherlock Holmes was to hold his hand but that didn't stop my teenage mind from thinking about what might come next. 

We didn't sleep that night, I stayed right there, his hand in mine, eventually moving so both of us lay flat on top of his covers. The darkness came and went with the turn of our conversation and the comfort of it silences. My eyes closed softly against the first sign of morning light and when he spoke his words were lazy and heavy with tiredness. 

'I could do this. We could do this. In fact, I'd like to do this, with you, often.'


	3. Specimen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note to jump up and mention that my head canon for Victor is Ben Whishaw, so if you were expecting a Hiddleston-esque Vic I'm sorry to disappoint.

Things changed gradually after that. We spent more time together than we did apart. One particular Thursday, in a quiet, almost embarrassed whisper he extended me an invitation to spend the summer with him at his family home. My parents were away in Europe for the majority of the holidays and I had no wish to spend the summer entertaining myself in rural Norfolk. I accepted rather bashfully, looking down at my feet as if I were misbehaving.

To think, there would soon be a time where embarrassment and uncertainty was nothing but a distant memory between us. 

As for the progression of our relationship, in the month or so that followed the end of our midterm exams we never strayed much from the comfort and ease of interlocking fingers. It had taken a while but by march of that year he would start to take my hand in his out of habit, whether alone in the confines of one of our bedrooms or under the ever judgmental gaze of our classmates. If they were set against it, I certainly didn't hear a word of it - I never had much time for ignorance. 

Sometimes I would wait for him to finish in the evening, already half buried under his covers with the work I needed to do that evening - sometimes if I had enough of a head start we would finish at the same time (assuming he was bothering to do any of his work that evening). 

Sherlock's scent tended to get everywhere. I spent a long time trying to analyse and replicate it with little success. Just as he did, his scent evolved. The last in my memory is of antiseptic, stale breath and greasy hair contained within the broken remnants of our life and the new, unwelcome stench of a hospital. 

But that, that is along way from when I laid myself upon his bed, face hidden in his pillow, breathing him in. I can't remember if I was embarrassed or not when I was caught. I know I must have smiled and watched him laugh, eyes following each movement when he shed the layer of his school blazer and let it crumple in a messy pile to the floor. There was something different in the way he looked down at me then, edging towards the bed with a glint of something predatory within his stormy eyes. I couldn't decide whether I was more nervous or excited. He stopped right at the end of the bed, standing over me, our gazes fixed.

 

"You're early."

 

I note, well aware that he hates it when I state the obvious. Though this time, instead of chiding me, he simply inclines his head. 

 

"I've not much patience for German Vocabulary - besides, I knew I had something far more interesting waiting for me here..."

 

His momentary confidence seems to falter after that, cheeks darkening, his eyes averted to the side. I laugh quietly.

 

"I hope you're referring to me and not the strange dead insects squashed between those slides on your desk."

 

Though he continues to look away I can see the edge of a smirk playing at his lips and I lean up on my elbows to get a better look at him.

 

"As a scientist I hate to admit that said specimens had little to do with my return..."

 

"I promise to keep your secret."

 

He turns to me finally with one eyebrow raised, humming quietly.

 

"Make sure you do."

 

I roll my eyes and flop back down onto the bed, letting myself wonder what would have happened had Sherlock maintained his determination a little longer.

He rolls up the sleeves of his shirt to just above his elbows and sits on the side of the bed, still apparently fighting with himself over what should be his next move. I watch him for a short while, the back of my hand breaching the gap between us until it is pressed over his shirt at the small of his back, itching to slip under the material and meet with the warmth hidden beneath the cotton. Instead I play the fabric between my fingers and he looks to the side, down towards where my head is rested back upon his pillows. His lips are ever so slightly parted, one of his own hands reaching between us to untuck the shirt from the band of his trousers. I touch him then, that hidden piece of skin, massaging the planes of it with the very tips of my fingers, stroking the width of his lover back until he practically purrs which in turn gives me shivers. 

 

"Lay with me?"

 

My words come as a whisper, as if speaking too loudly would frighten him away. The touch breaks when he moves, laying on his side to face me one hand hovering across my waist for a moment until his nerves allow him to rest it there, the length of him pressed up against my side. I look up at him, lifting a hand to his face and worrying a few stray curls between my fingers.

 

"Are you my boyfriend?"

 

I'm surprised and fail to answer straight away, the cogs in my brain grinding against one another. I'd thought about it, of course. Boyfriends. Two guys who happen to hold hands- but it was far more than that. I hadn't been plagued much by the idea of sexuality and I doubt it registered at all with him which is why my hesitation on the subject was less to do with panic and more the sheer shock and joy of it. 

 

"I'd like that. Yeah...Yeah."

 

He tries not to smile too widely at my answer, giving a small nod and burying his face away against my shoulder and the quilt. I laugh at his reaction and make so we are both turned towards one another, his face still partially hidden. My hand rests at his waist, pulling our slender bodies close, our foreheads touching when he finally looks towards me.  
Everything rind to a halt when our eyes meet again. Thinking about it now, writing it down - well it all sounds a little cliche. I suppose it was, most first kisses are.

His hand appears at my shoulder and I'm sure it was trembling, sliding along the curve to rest at the side of my throat. I can feel the warmth of our breath int he small space between us, a mix of smoke, warm tea and sweet marmalade. That fist kiss is - messy, awkward. Our faces don;t quite know what to do and my lips are pressed completely off centre. It comes in a series of slow, lingering kisses, our lips locking again and again in some strange display of fading innocence. My whole goddamn body is singing. 

The initial uncertainty has faded, his hand becoming a little more persistent, thumb stroking small circles just under my jaw as I dip beneath the hem of his shirt with my fingers. I finally feel the sharp edge of one hips bone against my hand and the glorious pressure between us as I squeeze against the skin. 

In the first instant that we pull apart enough to look at one another again I see his hooded eyes and blush stained cheeks, the way his lips are red and swollen, his tongue dipping out to taste whatever remains of me upon them. 

 

"Sherlock..."

 

He says nothing, just hums quietly as if I've interrupted hum by daring to speak. I don't try again just yet, instead I push my feet between his two resting ankles to entangle us even more thoroughly, drawing the tip of my nose a long his jaw and across on soft, warmed cheek. 

I remember the feeling of never wanting to stop, of desperately wanting to have my hands on his body for the rest of my life and to never move again. I want to tell him but every time I make to open my mouth he stops me with a kiss and it's as if he's discovered something fascinating, unable to bring himself to stop. It doesn't matter to me, I would happily lay there for hours and be his specimen, gifted the precious entirety of his attention and affection. What i wouldn't give to feel even the slightest glimmer of that now.


	4. Buzz

That summer held an extraordinary number of firsts for me and I can remember each specific one in such detail that I could almost be back in that manor, the cool water at the lake lapping my toes.

Some of the firsts would mean little to me at the time - Such as my introduction to Mycroft. I liked Mycroft Holmes the first time I met him. He was actually rather charming, showing both care and consideration for his brother which appeared to be reciprocated. Somehow that only makes me angrier now- at the ease in which he quite single handedly broke his brother’s heart. It would take another year for the fraternal relationship to fracture and another one after that for it to break beyond repair. 

Fortunately, the other firsts were rather more pleasant though possibly just as sinful. 

I arrived at the Holmes manor on the 17th July, my suitcase trailing behind me, greeted by an overexcited Sherlock who had by that point been waiting at the gravel drive a good two hours before my arrival. I can remember exactly what he was wearing- a pair of light denim jeans with a rip at the knee and a t shirt from the British Museum, black with a white print of the Rosetta Stone. At that moment it was one of the funniest things I had ever seen, though now I guess it's possible that my teenage brain may have mistaken elation and love for comedy. Either way, it tickled me.

He approached me slowly though I could tell he was holding himself back. I wasn't even sure if his parents had been enlightened to the nature of our relationship at all. I half expected him to hold out his hand for me to shake.

"Buzz."

The pet name was a reasonably new development, for a long time the relevance of what he had chosen to call me eluded me, until I asked him and he responded with:

'Bees are small, under appreciated and inexplicably fascinating. They shouldn't be capable of flight and yet...Our entire ecosystem would disintegrate without their continued existence and still they remain ultimately over looked, unheard. Except perhaps, for the occasional buzz.’

I've far too much pride to record my reaction to those words.

I'd yet to gift him with a name of my own, it would take me until the end of the summer - needless to say it was suitably mortifying. 

And so he greets me thus, the slight breeze blowing stray hair across his face. We stop about a foot away from each other. I think he might be worried whether or not I am comfortable with showing affection in this situation, after all we had spent no time together yet outside of school. As is happens he wasn’t particularly bothered about that after all.

Another second passes and he breaches the gap between us, his right hand cupping my cheek as he leans forward on his toes and kisses me squarely. I laugh into it, letting my hand fall from my case so both arms may wrap around his body, it takes me a good minute or so to look up from where my face is buried in his shoulder and notice someone standing in the doorway. I flush immediately and step back, my face a painful shade of red.

"Mr. Trevor."

He sounds so well spoken that even with my boarding school drawl, I feel hideously under educated. 

Sherlock turns at the sound of his voice, slipping his hand into mine and entwining our fingers, his thumb stroking circles over the back of my hand.

"Don't try and scared him off before he's even stepped foot inside the house,"

The older man, Mycroft I assume, laughs at that and shakes his head.

"I assume that if you haven't managed to frighten him away, then he has a disposition unlikely to be shaken by me."

Sherlock promptly offers up his middle finger which just makes the older man laugh louder.

"Careful mummy doesn't see you waving that around. She may very well cut it off."

He pauses before looking to me again.

"It's a pleasure to meet you."

It takes me a moment but I manage to respond eventually.

"Thank you, for having me."

I know now that he was truly as shocked as me, that Sherlock had never so much as mentioned another name to him outside of the family or as anything more than something in passing other than mine. At the time Mycroft Holmes was pleased that Sherlock had finally found someone.

A few years later and he would desperately despise the fact that the someone Sherlock had found, was me. 

I didn’t meet his parents that day, Sherlock offered a vague explanation as he escorted me up to his bedroom, blatantly ignoring the existence of a guest room.

There was no mistaking who it belonged too, from the mystery mixtures bubbling away at the desk to the Fibonacci spirals scribbled in marker on the far wall. It was more the evidence of organised chaos than outright mess. I've no doubt that he could have told me the location of anything had I cared to ask.

I close the door behind us and push my case to the side, pulling my navy blue hoodie from my shoulder and saving it draped over the desk chair. It gives me the opportunity to look out of his window across the grounds. Acres of manicured green roll out in my vision, blemished only by the blue shimmer of a lake, the banks decorated with reeds and water flowers. 

I imagine falling into it with the heat of the sun burning the back of my neck, his body already dripping with cold water droplets like carved ice. 

"We can swim whenever you like."

I look over my shoulder, no need to ask how he knows. In that moment I can do nothing other than smile at him, there's no need for me to say anything. Of course I do eventually, though I can’t recall exactly what. 

The day is slow, easy and comfortable. I sit up with my back against the headboard and he lays across with his head resting in my lap. With one hand I thread my fingers through unruly curls and with the other turn the pages of the book I am reading aloud from. Something I had rested from the school library a few months ago, of course by rescued I mean stolen.

I was very good at that, stealing things. 

And so I read to him, anything I care too. From Sassoon to Coleridge, Shelley to Kipling. I let the words slip past my chewed, dry lips until my throat is sore and my voice becomes nothing more than an inelegant scratch. I wonder when he first noticed my discomfort though. Shan't bother to ask, he wouldn't tell me either way. In the end I close the collection and drop it off of the bed, listening got the tell-tale thump when it hits the floor. He's still, steady breathing, hardly moving other than the rise and fall of his chest. I've no idea if he's sleeping or not until I still the movements of my fingers which were, until then, still nestled in his hair.

"Don't."

His voice is quiet, a little rough. If he wasn't sleeping then I’m sure he had been not too long ago. 

I know what he means, can finish the end of the sentence for him and despite the fact that my wrist aches I continue to stroke him like some kind of domestic animal. 

“We don’t talk about sex.’

It’s a statement not a question so I happily avoid making a response. Inwardly my brain has crashed, I’m glad he’s facing out so he can’t see my ridiculous gaping mouth.

‘I thought that after a month or so, give or take. Though that may have been subject to error as I’ve little evidence to go on…What I mean to say it – shouldn’t you be asking…’

He paused and I wish I could see the expression on his face as he searches for the right words.

‘Shouldn’t you be wanting more than breathy wet kisses and quiet embraces on top of the covers?’

‘I’m…’

I allow myself a moment to gather my thoughts – out of all of the things he could have said – of all my guesses – that wouldn’t have been on the list. 

‘Aren’t you – Sherlock, I don’t…’

I realise then that he’s made damn sure that this conversation is happening in such a way that I have no way of being able to see his reaction.

‘I’m not sure we really have to worry about…’

‘It’s natural progression.’

‘I suppose, but…’

‘Do you not want to – ‘

I laugh and push him off of me, not out of anger but I’m damned if I’m going to have this conversation with the side of his head. 

He sits up, crossing his legs and glaring across the small gap which separates us.

‘Where is all of this coming from?’

I ask, bridging the space and taking his hand. It’s only then that I realise they are shaking.

‘Sherlock?’

He looks away from me again at the sound of his name.

‘I’m not ready.’

The way he suddenly blurts the words out almost have me falling sideways off of the bed. He crashes on like a steam train.

‘I know what you should be expecting but I’m certain that by now you have realised the extent of my experience is wholly contained to what has happened between us. I wouldn’t – ‘

I hold up my hand and shake my head slowly. Yes, I know where this is going – In fact, I have a list of curious things about Sherlock Holmes, one of which is how he had reached the summer of his fifteenth year without so much as touching himself let alone anyone else.  
Hell when I discovered where it was and what it did, I couldn’t leave it alone.

‘It’s fine.’

He’s about to speak again but I take counter measures by leaning forward and clamping a hand over his mouth.  
‘Just because I’m – because I do that – It doesn’t mean I want to have sex. Understand? Yeah, when we’re ready, when we’re both ready…Christ it will be a fucking honour to be the one you choose, if you ever want to. But just to be clear – the kissing, the laying together and waking up with your elbow in my face. Well that’s enough, more than enough.’  
I let my hand drop so he can respond.

‘And when…’

‘And when we decide – we talk about it. You know you only have to ask, I’ll give you anything – Jesus, you know that.’

Sherlock stares dumbly at me for a good few seconds before giving and nod to demonstrate his understanding. 

We don’t talk much more that evening – he perches on his chair, eyes closed, somewhere in his mind where I have no chance of intruding. 

I fall asleep first whilst he’s still at his desk but I wake a few hours late to the warm pressure of his body curled around mine.

When I wake fully in the morning, its business as usual, except perhaps his eyes linger on me a little longer than usual when I disappear into his bathroom to take my shower. Even if it’s all I my head, it certainly goes a long way to contributing to my morning routine.


	5. Heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The porn begins, the rating has gone up - things will probably escalate quite quickly from now on. I have now tagged this as underage simply because - they are...it's consensual and both are nearing sixteen which is the legal age of consent in the UK.

Sherlock and I fell into something of a routine during that summer, the entire experience held an odd sense of domesticity which evolved from the relationship commenced during the months we spent together at school. My first meeting with his parents was uneventful, his mother was obviously a little too interested in how much gin was in her glass and his father – his father was certainly different. The man would spend hours in his green houses or wondering around the grounds collecting samples. He and Sherlock would talk in half conversation that I had no chance of understand – which wasn’t anything at all compared to when all three of the Holmes men were in one room, hardly saying a word to one another apart from the occasionally snark between siblings or the affectionate huff from their father. It wasn’t uncomfortable and often I felt more at ease with their father than I did with my own whom I hadn’t seen in a number of months. 

I suppose it should have been difficult for me, to be away from my family for so long. Even as I write this, I haven’t seen either of them in over sixteen years. It didn’t matter, I don’t care now that our relationship never recovered from my decisions, I am glad that Sherlock made some kind of peace with his family before…before he…

Mid-august of that year was painfully hot, I remember nights waking up half tangled in sheets which Sherlock had already kicked from his body, my t shirt stuck damply to my chest. He’d spread out as much as humanly possible, leaving me a sliver to contort myself onto, my body bending to fit around his own, the occasional hand in my face or elbow in my stomach. There had been a few nights when he would move close to me, press right up against me, his body sticky from sweat, t shirt ridding up just a little, just enough to see. I wanted to touch, to kiss – the tension in my body grew every day and it also became like static between us – catching each other’s eye mid conversation, breath quickening just a touch, my heart beating so hard it could have wrecked my rib cage. 

Sometime nearing the end of the month we came up from dinner late having spent most of the day swimming, lazing in the sun and smoking concealed away in one of the green houses. It was getting on for thirty degrees and the heat had made us lazy. I go into the bathroom to brush my teeth, pull of my shorts and t shirt so I can change into my pajamas. Just a light white cotton tee and a pair of blue cotton pants. I splash my face with cool water, pushing my hair back from my face. When I enter his bedroom Sherlock is just standing there in his underwear, a pair of dark grey boxer briefs. I pause, open my mouth, shut it again, clear my throat. 

 

“It’s too hot.”

 

He explains, I can’t argue with it – I don’t want. In the end I just nod and smile as if it’s having no effect on me at all. Every inch of that milk skin, the small beauty spots dotted at random paces, the hair peeking from under his arms and the trail of it from his belly button to the elastic of his shorts. Fuck. I swallow thickly and with an uncharacteristic nervousness I grab my own t-shirt by the hem and pull it up and over my head, leaving myself in my pajama trousers. He eyes me and suddenly it’s even hotter, I can’t breathe or think – so what I am supposed to do when he pulls back the covers and lays down on the bed, pulling a single white sheet over himself. There he is painting the picture of some Grecian statue, Apollo, perhaps…And I have to step across the room and get in beside him, both of us maintaining a little of the distance between us though all I want, all I honestly want is to have my hands all over him. Our breathing sounds loud, I can’t work out whether it’s the stillness of the room without the wind striking the windows from outside or whether we’re both struggling a little, panting. I’m half hard dying to touch myself and the proof of it is poorly hidden by the thin sheet and my flimsy bed wear. 

 

“Sherlock…”

 

I whisper into the darkness, finding not response other than a small throaty sound. I’m not sure whether he wants me to continue or not and I’m about to speak when the back of his hand touches to mind – his fingers move backwards and stroke the gaps, up and down, entwining the digits, constantly moving. It feels as if he’s playing with me, teasing each harsh breath from my body, controlling the want. I can hear his breath quicken and I move my own fingers, it’s painfully sexual, the way we tangle our hands softly, stroke and rub the skin together. I turn my head to see his face through the darkness but I can’t see whether his cheeks are flushed. His lips are parted though and when he sees me looking he turns his face – our eyes meet and I very nearly lose it. 

He’s been the only subject of my fantasies for months now, everything I’ve wanted to touch, kiss – and when we would I’d start to shake a little, press my tongue to his bottom lips with a pathetic eagerness which he would accommodate occasionally. Sometimes I think he was frightened because he’d always had such control over himself – that when we kissed, when things finally started to escalated – the animalistic nature of our want scared him.  
I was fully hard, laying there looking at him, our fingers dancing together between us and I can’t help it, I have to move closer – just a little. I hear a small noise fall from his lips, watch his worry that soft bottom lip between his teeth. 

 

“You should kiss me.” 

 

He finally murmurs, shuffling closer – leaving nothing but an inch between us, bodies only centimetres away from being pressed close. I start to worry that if he gets any nearer he’ll feel the hard presence of my cock. 

 

“If I kiss you now I don’t think I’d be able to stop.”

 

I say honestly, unable to deny the rising level of my own want, determined not to ignore his fears and uncertainties. I never wanted to push it – to take him there before he was ready.  
He moves again and that’s when I feel it, the warm press of his thigh between mind, the throbbing of my shaft as the pressure of Sherlock’s leg move against it. I gasp, my fingers clenching around one of his wrists. 

 

“I don’t want you to stop. This – all of this. It’s been driving me insane. Victor.”

 

Each word is whispered quickly, heatedly so the warm breath dance right over my lips, I’ve no idea if he knows what he’s doing, what all of this is doing to me. 

 

“I know you want it, you lay there next to me, wide awake staring, your fingers twitching – desperate to touch. When you – I want you to kiss me…”

 

He finishes, we both know there’s more to it but the act of making conversation is more difficult now that we’re both panting, my hips are rocking in small needy movements so I gain some friction from his upper thigh. I give up any hope of being able to say no, I don’t even pause – our lips touch again but it isn’t soft or delicate. Before I know what has happen his tongue it in my mouth and we’re sliding together, wet pink muscles battling, dancing. Our hands are frantic, scratching and groping at every inch of available skin. It’s messy and wholly unromantic but I fear I’m about to achieve the best orgasm of my life right then and there without hardly anything else. He’s making these broken, wanton keening noises, biting at my lips and digging his nails hard into my back so he can press our bodies together, I feel him then, finally – any doubt that he wants me in the same way dissolves because the presence of his pleasure is right there. Hard, hot, covered by soft cotton. I groan and clumsily push the sheet away, our lips still crushed together, still panting and grinding, all sense and rhythm abandoned in favour of this – this base need. 

 

“Vic...”

 

His voice a wreck and it’s sexy as hell, the heat in my groin grown, throbbing. 

 

“Touch me. Show me – Please. Please. I’ve waited and I…I don’t….”

 

He’s begging me, Sherlock Holmes is begging me to touch him and I haven’t the heart to question or keep him waiting, I ignore any of my own fears and shove a hand down between us, stroking lightly first, just over his navel so I can feel his stomach muscles tremble, his hips buck. I've moved away a little so I can focus on this, on him. My kisses become slowly, sensual – a tease f tongue on tongue as I coax my way over his boxers and cup his prick for the first time, squeezing the shaft, feeling the thick flesh. I crave it, right then, to have it touching me in some way, pressed to my skin, to taste, to explore. If I hadn’t known before I did hen. I wanted it and I would want it a lot, often. It was nothing like touching mine, it was everything, I could swear it would send me crazy. 

He’s shaking, one fist tangled in the sheets clenching so hard it probably hurts. Now he's not even kissing me back, not really, he’s just panting hard against my mouth, swearing and cursing nonsense in whispers and broken noises. 

I become braver, sneaking my fingertips down past the elastic, stroking the through the thick thatch of hair until they press to the side of his cock, until my hand is pressed fully against it. I don’t really know what I’m doing, to horny and inexperienced to give anything of quality but it doesn’t matter then. What matters is that he starts rubbing himself against me, small muffled cries falling from his mouth as he struggles to keep quiet, his eyes are screw shut and when I finally make a circle with my fist he grabs a hold of my shoulder and uses it as leverage. Creating friction for himself. I start stroking him, exploring ways I can twist my wrist, rub my thumb in small circles over the swollen head, and now wet with beads of come. It feels like hours but I know it isn’t, it’s minutes – Sherlock is shaking, spilling out random words, bits of information I don’t understand. I’m close to frantic too, willfully ignoring my own persistent arousal because more than anything I need this, to see, to make him come. This boy who never so much as touches himself and he’s about to fall apart. I see his eyes snap open wide in shock, his lips opening, head thrown back as he screams silently. His whole body goes stiff in the second before it begins to convulse – the orgasm ripping through his whole body, ribbons of thick white come spraying out over my hand, up across his bare stomach. I watched, completely entranced, hypnotise. 

Without even thinking I draw my hand away and look at the sticky mess of fluid between my fingers and over my palm, experimentally pushing it down, under the band of my trousers and around my own prick. The slick wet, the knowledge that my fingers are stained with Sherlock’s seed and currently wrapped around my own prick – the sudden reality of everything that has just happen, strikes my teenage body and within a few brief strokes I’m crashing over the edge. Crying out, less successful at keeping quiet than Sherlock hand been. Now my hand is painted with the essence of us both, two messy teenagers, half naked, sated, panting and heaving on the bed. We’re wet with sweat, come and I swear the room much reek of it but I can’t tell. I wonder if I should be scared, worried that he’ll turn around and laugh – usual fears for someone our age. I wasn't though. Somehow I just knew. Even more so when he looks up through wild mussed curls and smiles at me, ignoring the mess of fluid to wrap his arms around me and pull us close, burying his face in the crook of my neck.

I don’t hear what he says, I don’t need to. I just answer quietly, making sure he can hear my response – because somehow I know he needs it.

 

“I love you, too.”


	6. Fix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter may be a little hard to follow - I'm trying to capture the thoughts of a man who is really grieving and didn't want it to seem too coherent, especially as it progresses. There will be time skips in this chapter and future chapters, I am not done with the teen innocence. It will be a wild ride back and forth - I hope you stay with me for it. 
> 
> Drug use. 
> 
> No beta, little sleep. Mistakes are all mine and i apologise.

That summer passed in something of a haze, a sunlit flicker picture of adolescent discovery, exploration and a growing love which never really faltered – not even now that we are so – so very far apart. The distance irrevocable. I still can‘t think of him as – as not here, somewhere else on this planet living his life. I could deal with that. This other reality threatens to overwhelm me, to eradicate any progress I may have made these past few years. I was always the weaker one, he never needed it like I did – the rush, the elation. Sherlock could have walked away whenever he chose because cocaine did not have a hold of him – it wasn’t the drug, it was the feeling, the alleviation of that crippling boredom…and there were other ways for him. My mind did not carry the same level of strength as his. Cocaine had me. It wrecked me, it still does. We never said anything about it, his brother always assumed that I had introduced him to the life style and I never denied it, no matter how untrue the assumption happened to be. Ignorance is bliss. I always preferred that people would think ill of me rather than of him simply because I don’t think he understood the repercussions of his actions. The pain, the harshness – the reality of what words and actions could lead to further down the line. Perhaps it would interest Mycroft Holmes to know that I did not give Sherlock his first hit of anything, let alone cocaine. That the first drag on a joint, snort of powder or prick of a needle came to me, from him. Accepted willingly, asked for in some cases – but never the less. My chemist. I would have followed him anywhere – and I did. To the darkest, darkest corners of London, New York city.

I was sixteen when we first smoked marijuana together – I didn’t like it, neither did he. The phase was short lived and more to prove we could than from our finding any enjoyment in it. At first the dullness was pleasant, unusual – after a few minutes he began to panic, I can hear it now – his breathing fastening, chest heaving, skin all flushed and hot. Sherlock wasn’t illogical but with the slightest hint that his control might be slipping he began to panic, to really struggle. That cold, calm demeanour would come in the years to follow and would build up around him like a brick wall. He went from boiling heat to cold and clammy n a matter of seconds, that – slow sense of not quite grasping what was happening, I can only imagine what it must have been like. It’s not a memory particularly worth delving into but it is necessary perhaps to make sense of everything that followed.  
He could get his hands on anything, that smile, the glint in his eye. By the time we had entered six form he’d grown out of his uncertain shyness and seemed to realise that he had a magnetism that people were drawn to – right up until he opened his mouth. Just a quirk of his lips would have someone bending over backwards to do his bidding. Honestly? It drove me crazy at first, I wanted to keep him in that shell, to wrap him, lock him away – he was mine…But – he always was, despite all of that. He never cared for them, never really smiled – that smile where his eyes just – they go from grey to stormy blue and he smiles so wide that maybe, just maybe his face will split – so my heart swells and – and then love scares me. Scared me. You don’t fall out of love with some just because – because they slip away…

I seem to have digressed so thoroughly I’ve lost the thread of the initial story. I had so much to say about that summer but now I think on it, it says so little of the truth, tells the story with a painful irrelevance. If we had held onto that innocence then maybe he would be here with me now – working in a lab somewhere, coming home at five every day. But that isn’t what happened –

Every substantial event in my life has been caused by his actions, his existence.

1\. The day I met Sherlock Holmes.

2\. The day I first kissed Sherlock Holmes.

3\. The day I ran away with Sherlock Holmes.

4\. The day Sherlock Holmes administered my first hit of cocaine and told me it would be glorious.

5\. Thirty seconds later, when I realised how right he was.

 

The cheap tube of rubber is tight uncomfortable and I’m itching to pull it off. I’ve never been a fan of injects and this all seems like a substantial amount of effort when we could just be lining up some of the powder I still have stashed in my wallet. I don’t bother asking how he already knows how it will feel – I haven’t seen him for two days after all. He does that – runs away on his own little adventures, I wonder sometimes if maybe he just forgets about me – but he always comes back.

 

This places isn’t quite as dire as the last – the papers peeling from the walls, the floor boards splintering and the sound of rats itching and squealing make me want to claw my own skin off but there’s a mattress, an old record player that has been playing out scratch Tchaikovsky or the last hour. He brought it back, knows it’s my favourite. Then he smiles like he owns ever damn star in the sky and tells me about this – tis magic…rattling away about compounds and adjustments, substantial risk, blood thinning and worthwhile. I miss half of it because I’m staring at him, because I love him and we both know I’ll say yes to whatever it is anyway.

 

“Keep still.”

 

He starts, I nod and do as I’m told, eyes fixed on the syringe point, how it dips into the clear vial and pulls up, filling the chamber, I incline my head, or at least I start to before he glares at me.

 

“If this get an air pocket in it…”

 

I glare at him, still clenching my fist per instruction about ten minutes ago.

 

“Hurry up.”

 

I’m nervous but I won’t tell him. It’s not one of those times where I assume he already knows, because he probably doesn’t. That’s not what he’s good at. He doesn’t ask if I’m scared, if it’s what I really want. Sherlock is beautiful even when he is preparing to inject illegal stimulants directly into my blood stream, even when I don’t know where they came from or what will happen afterwards.

 

He taps my life line once, twice – his tongue tip sticking out from between his lips just slightly. I focus on them, I don’t look at the needle point, t where he holds the chamber and the plunger in his right hand. It won’t be long, just a sharp scratch and I can kiss him again – who cares if I’m here in some derelict slum covered in filth, if either of us have showered for three days. That’s why we ran away. Why we couldn’t let them tear us apart.

 

Sherlock and I had graduated sixth form that June, he had already turned eighteen and I had another month to wait. We hadn’t slept in the same bed for two months and I hadn’t seen him at all for one and a half. I suppose Mycroft had hoped that would be the end of it – some teenage romance stopped in its tracks, both would pine for a while and then move on. I thought that for a while – that Sherlock would mourn my loss for a week, then he’d find something suitably delicious to distract himself with and II would be a memory, rarely visited, hidden away somewhere.

 

Sherlock never told me exactly what it was that Mycroft had said to him, the reasons he had laid out for transferring him to another school, one where he could live at home during term time. At that point neither of us had the power to disagree or at least to do anything about it.

 

We both had places at good universities – he would be the graduate chemist and I would be studying higher mathematic and accounting (much to his disgust ‘dull’).

 

Except – except running away was easier. Easier than being apart – than him holding up the family name at Oxford and me being locked away in some hole near Euston. We didn’t even make a conscious decision, no money, nothing and yet, by the time we’d found somewhere to stay that first night I already had a hold of two stole credit cards and a half decent bed for us to sleep in.

 

I’d always been an efficient pick pocket – though he’d never admit that I taught him a thing or two.

 

This must be so difficult to follow – though perhaps that’s for the best. I hate to think what outside eyes would think of this if they found it. I sound half insane – some infatuated drug addled teenager rather than a half recovered addict – still codependant after a decade. I’m not sure which is worse.

 

“Do you trust me?”

 

He asks and I nod, of course I do – yet, I appreciate the fact that he’s concerned enough to even enquire. That’s his way of saying ‘I love you’. He’ll whisper it in the night sometimes, but its times like these when he really says it. ‘Thank you for following me, for being mine.’ I am his, I know that – its undeniable as the slender metal point breaks skin and feel a kind of, tightening –a wave of fear and then –

 

A slow burning fire. The distant dance of a super nova. Its love – no, it brings my love into perspective. How could I have lived without this before – without the clarity and contentment? The racing heart, the music – the first violin playing pianissimo, quivering vibrations on the strings, dancing Sleeping Beauty to the beat of the double bass in my chest. I gasp and fall back, dully ware of the rubber tubing being loosed and set aside.

 

There are so many things I could say, that I think I should say – but I smile and pout, lick my lips slowly just to hear his breath hitch. I feel powerful, I can hear a rocket, a fucking speeding train but haven’t got a clue where it’s coming from. He looks down at me – licking his lips and I know, I know he’s turned on because he did this to me – or at least, that’s how he sees it. He’s torn between having me right there and then – and sitting back, administering his own dose…And so he does. Methodical, practised, although he can’t have done it more than once or twice.

 

“Found this for us, baby.”  
He breathes right over my ear once he’s disposed of the single needle, one for us both, shared. His blood, his and mine. I swallow, my eyes roll and I just want to touch, to be touched all over. Sherlock leans closer, his hot lips parted, teasing just above mine, tongue pressing out – lapping into me and I meet him.

 

“Fuck.”

 

I gasp and buck my hips immediately, groaning like some kind of animal, hardly even touched.

 

“Oh fuck…”

 

I hiss again, my cock half full though the arousal is more heightened than I’ve ever felt it before – even when we cut lines with MDMA or experimented with pills. They were fun, they were a party but it isn’t this – this fucking heaven. I’m writhing about on the filthy, reeking, forgotten mattress, fucking up into nothing at all because now we aren’t even kissing – now he’s just breathing heavy, body heaving, eyes fixed on mine.

 

“Let’s fuck – let’s just fuck and do cocaine for the rest of our lives.”

 

I whine my agreement and struggle to pull his body down so at least I have something to grind myself into.

 

“I love you…”

 

My voice is broken, wrecked it must be.

 

“I love you, too. Buzz. So much – do you understand? Do you?”

 

He’s adamant and I’m terrified because it’s the first time I’ve heard those words fall from his lips so blatantly. In that moment and even when I think about it now – I know why I’m an addict, why I always will be – and why I can’t regret it.


	7. Blow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All mistakes belong to me. Sorry about the wait. If you're also reading Changes - there will be an update, the fic has not been abandoned, my Johnlock is just a little stuck at the moment.
> 
> Thank you for reading.

I think a lot about those first few weeks, where taking cocaine in its liquid form was less of an addiction and more of a recreational habit. It wasn’t so much about finding the next fix as it was enjoying the high we were riding. In a way it reminds me of the first times we had sex, the experimentation, cautious uncertainty. As if we were testing something out to see how far we could take it, stretch the limits. Sex with Sherlock is probably one of the only things in the universe that surpasses a cocaine high. He knew what I liked, straight away – no questions. No remarks. He didn’t care what it was, wasn’t disgusted or confused and in return I learnt his body, his needs. The way his back arched when I called him gorgeous, brilliant, perfect. How he would almost sob with pleasure at the sight of me lapping his come up from my fingers, the floor – from anywhere and off anything. There were days when it was sick, filthy and then others where it was sweet, delicate. Always intense. 

I miss it. I really – I miss him. Fuck. I’m allowed moment’s like this now, aren’t I? Because – because even when he left, when he was taken away – even then I never got to say good bye. I get his obituary now, an image of his bloodied face, cold dead eyes. I get to read stories of his fraudulence though he wouldn’t care – he never did. Fuck everyone else. And what I really want to know is, was he happy? Did he find something that made him whole again? Something to take away the bite of pain, to steal him for a moment from the torture that he suffered when that mind really got lost or stagnant. Was there someone? I hope so. Sherlock Holmes was so worthy of love – so desperately brilliant, kind – perhaps it was hidden away – the fierce loyalty, that smile. Christ. I think I’m losing my mind. 

 

“Like this?”

 

He asks quietly, his hands are shaking, he’s nervous and blushing. I feel dizzy because his hands are one me, one playing fingers tips over a hard nipple and the other squeezing right at the top of my thigh, leaving the pressure of a promise. 

 

“I don’t think there is a right way, it isn’t chemistry…”

 

Though in a way I suppose it is, even then it strikes me as a cliché analogy. He gives my thigh a sharp swat and I close my mouth, letting him explore, discover.

It’s only a few days since we first really did anything, coming in a sweaty messy, falling together afterwards, tangled.   
Now the curtains are drawn, its midday and he has me completely naked, spread out across the bed, my teen body pale, too thin and sharp – but he loves it. I can tell. His clothes have been discarded too, his skin almost glowing in the warm light. He’s creeping slowly down the length of my body, trailing kisses which leave spots of burning fire along the path they make towards my lower stomach. When he reaches the skin there the muscles beneath quiver, every inch of me turning to goose flesh. He loves it – this discovery of power, I can see how willing his is to gorge himself on it, to push me, use me. 

 

“Talk to me.”

 

I whisper, my cheeks red, looking down just in tiem to see him look owlishly back at me, face half hidden by his curls, lips twitching up into a slight smile.   
Somehow his sexual confidence has multiplied by a hundred in the past few days alone. I should be worried – but I’m excited. 

 

“Victor!”

 

His voice is a picture of mock surprise, as if my lack of innocence is a shock to him, as if he hasn’t seen the frankly disgusting amount of porn I have stashed under my bed at school.

 

“Please?”

 

There’s a soft quiet plea to the word when it falls past my parted lips, kiss swollen and wanting for more. This is what he wants, to hear me beg, to know that he has me exactly where he wants me. People say that Sherlock Holmes is manipulative, but that’s okay, I like it when he manipulates me. 

 

“And what should I say?”

 

The words are a hum. Or at least are followed by one. I become distracted by the fingers drifting through my dark pubic hard, teasing the base of my thick cock. It’s laying heavy between my thighs, curving up to the left, leaving a sticky wet patch on my navel when it bobs. My hands turn to fists in the fresh bed linen, toes curling, arching up as if insisting with my body means he’ll give me what I want. 

 

“Anything. Everything.”

 

In any other situation he would probably scoff and insist that I offer something more specific, but it’s enough for this, for him to understand how worked up I am – when he hasn’t really touched me at all. I could blame my teen hormones but I was much the same in my twenties – I always was, with him. 

 

“I never thought I wanted to engage with another human on this level…”

 

He starts, not how most people would of but that’s the point isn’t it? This is my Sherlock, not anyone else.

 

“But you – The way you tremble. I doubt I’ve ever seen anyone want for something so badly. I think it should be humiliating. How you whine and shiver, all flushed and barely in control. It should be pathetic but – it’s gorgeous. I want to feast on you…”

 

He pauses, kissing the top of my left thigh before pressing his cheek to my hip, eyeing the length of my cock. I mewl like an animal, as if I’ve just been kicked, wounded. 

 

“Can I, Victor?”

 

I’m not sure if he’s really asking and either way, the question is moot because his full lips have already puckered, laying a soft, decadent kiss to the gooey head of my prick. I cry out, oblivious to the other people who might be in the house. It isn’t like his hand – the pressure isn’t as firm but the heat is magnificent. The way he opens wide and slides himself down over me, his curious tongue teasing the small leaking slit, rubbing the base of the glands, using suction to pull back my foreskin and really lave over the head.   
He careful not to use his teeth, briefly testing how far he can take me before it becomes uncomfortable. It’s almost funny to think about now when I consider the way he would beg for me to fuck his skull not two months after but for this, the first time – it was enough, just a hot saliva slick tongue, tasting, enjoying – that was it – he was enjoying my body, my cock. And fuck – I was enjoying him. His impossibly wicked mouth that could drip words of poison, lavishing all of its attention on me, on my pleasure. 

Of course it doesn’t last. Or that is to say – I don’t last. I’m fifteen. My first boyfriend is giving me my first blow job and it’s all I can do not to pass out.

I managed to tug him back by the hair and for a moment his face is comically furious, confused right up until I gasp and spill seed all over myself. Anger turns to awe and he’s blinking down at the gluey liquid, his expression inquisitive when he moves his index finger through the small puddle of come and places it on his tongue, sucking the tip for a good thirty seconds before he leans in and kisses me on the lips.

 

“Next time you don’t have to pull me away.”

 

He pauses.

 

“It isn’t the foulest thing I’ve ever tasted.”

 

And I laugh, because this is Sherlock – the man that will put almost any unidentified substance in his mouth in the pursuit of scientific accuracy. I suppose I should be flattered and in a way I am. Just a little bit.


End file.
